Dirt Clods and Other Swell Stuff
	  		Goodie Bag

	The old Central School took up the entire block  between Division and
Columbia and 2nd and 3rd Avenues.  My first grade experience was Central’s last
year of existence.
	I lived on 10th Avenue so every school day I walked the eight blocks to and
from school twice because I ate lunch at home.  
	Our house was only a half block from the golf course clubhouse.  Every kid
in town knew that the clubhouse was specifically built to supply park and pool
dwellers with as much candy, ice cream and soda pop as required to replenish
their energy.  Serving golfers was a secondary function of the clubhouse.
	First grade can be traumatic for some kids, especially if they attract a bully.
I did.  His name was Bubba.  On my first day of school, Bubba, a fifth-grader, stuffed
all four foot 60 pounds of me into a hallway garbage can . . . head first.  
	The only times Bubba ignored me was when my classmate Dan, a six
foot 220 pound anomaly, was with me.  No one messed with Dan.  He was an
immediate choice to be my bodyguard.  Dan and I were inseparable.  I clung to him
like static electricity . . . except when I walked home.  Dan lived in the country so
walking me home was out of the question.
	Bubba was in the safety patrol and after school he served as a crossing
guard at Division and 4th.  Knowing this, I routinely walked home up Columbia.
However, one day Susan, a luscious willowy blue-eyed blond asked me to walk
her home because of a neighborhood dog that had scared her.  How could I
refuse?
	Her home was on 4th and Adams.  She always walked up Division then
crossed west at 4th to get home.  I was so enamored with Susan, I didn’t even
think about an impending encounter with Bubba.
	Susan and I talked about the dog that had frightened her as we walked
up Division.  Suddenly, there was Bubba.
	“Hey, Mac!  You go by the clubhouse on your way home don’t you!” he
said as a statement of fact, not a question.
	“Yeh,” I replied with a slight quiver in my voice.
	“Good.  Here’s a dollar.  Buy me a bag full of candy,” Bubba commanded.  
	“Hurry up.  I’m only here for a few more minutes,” he continued.
	Now what am I going to do?  Walk Miss America home or take the money
and run like hell to the clubhouse to buy candy for the son of King Kong? 
	I’ve thought about this choice a thousand times.  In spite of the life-
threatening consequences, I know deep in side of me, I would have been better
off walking Susan home.  But I didn’t.
	I ran like the wind to the clubhouse, handed Mrs. M. the dollar, picked out
seven pounds of candy and ran back to 4th and Division.  All of this took about 12
minutes.
	Bubba was gone.  Now what do I do?  Having the pea-sized brain of an
intimidated first grader, I set the bag of goodies on the ground next to the power
pole and ran all the way home.  
	Of course my best option would have been to keep the candy and deliver
it to Bubba the next day.  But this was a Friday.  How was I going to hide the goodies
from my sister and parents all weekend long?  
	I could not think of a good hiding place so I did the most logical thing for a
pea-brain.  I panicked and dropped the goods!  After all, I did what Bubba asked.
Was it my fault that he left before taking delivery?
	Monday morning came.  Bubba was waiting for the pea-brain on the front
steps of the school.  The first bell rang.  Five more minutes and the second bell
would ring then I could dart into the school and my classroom without encountering
King Kong.  I waited behind a tree across the street from the school entrance.
	All of the kids including Bubba disappeared into the school before the
second bell rang.  I swiftly ran the steps, entered the school and smacked directly
into Bubba who was waiting around the corner to my classroom.  He grabbed me
and as he began his tirade of how he was going to dismember me, Mr. T., the
Principal ordered us to class.  The second bell rang.
	At the first recess, I sidled up to my body guard, Dan.  Bubba confronted
me.
	“I want my candy or the dollar back!” he demanded. “Or  else!”
	“Okay, I’ll get you your dollar,” I promised.
	I immediately began scheming of how I would get the dollar owed to
Bubba.  All I could think of was to steal it from Dad’s wallet.
	Every payday my Dad cashed his entire check.  Then he would walk
around town, pay all the bills in cash and give Mom a food and clothing allowance.
The rest of the cash remained in his wallet.  The wallet was placed in a bureau
drawer in the living room at night.  I had to get into that drawer without being caught. 
	Night came.  I was in bed wide awake waiting for Dad to finish his pipe,
symphony and a chapter of one of Bernard De Voto’s books.  He finally retired at
about 10 pm.
	I waited for another 15 minutes to allow the sandman to complete his job.
With great stealth I slipped downstairs.  The room was dark.  My Dad had begun
his version of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony through his nose.
	Carefully, I grabbed the handles of the bureau drawer and pulled slowly.
It was heavy.  It was not only the safety vault housing the wallet it was home to
playing cards, chips, silverware and a hundred other less interesting items that only
parents thought important.
	The drawer squeaked.  I froze and listened intently for a halt in the nose
symphony.  It faltered for a moment then resumed with the full force of twenty
trombones, twelve trumpets and a single high pitched clarinet.
	I pulled harder until the drawer was half open.  I reached into the drawer
and to the customary location of the wallet.  It was not there!
	I closed the drawer quickly.  It squeaked again.  The symphony stopped.
I bolted up the stairs to my room.  At the top of the stairs I heard Mom.
	“Mac, are you alright?” she asked.
	“Yeh, I just needed a drink.  Good night.” I answered.
	Now what?  Had Dad found a new hiding place for his wallet?  I was in
really big trouble now.  Bubba was going to kill me.  I laid in bed in a cold sweat for
hours trying to come up with an excuse for King Kong that would delay my execution
for another day or at least until I could scrounge up a dollar.
	Morning came.  I couldn’t eat my breakfast.  Mom looked at me as if
searching for the meaning of life.
	“What, Mom?” I finally asked.
	“You don’t look too good this morning, Mac.  Are  you running a fever?
Have you had a bowel movement lately?” she asked.  “If not I can give you an
enema.”
	I hated that question.  It was too personal.  Every time I seemed to not be
myself the BM question popped up.  That must have been the extent of medical
knowledge possessed by my mother.  
	“I’m fine, Mom,” I said as I quickly rose from the table.  It was time to get to
school.  I had only eight blocks to come up with a delay tactic for Bubba.
	“Here,” Mom said as I opened the door to leave.  
	“Buy your lunch today.  I will be at the church helping with the reception
after the funeral.”  She handed me a one dollar bill.
	Hallelujah!!  Praise the Lord!!  My sorry butt was saved by a funeral.
	“Remember to bring me back the change, son,” she followed.
	Damn!  I was both saved and lost in a matter of 10 seconds.
	Alright.  What is worse?  The wrath of Mom or Bubba?  If I give Bubba the
dollar, he’s off my back.  Of course I won’t get to eat lunch today and I’ll have to lie
to Mom and tell her I lost the change.  If I buy lunch with the dollar . . . what am I
thinking of . . . ?  No contest.  Get rid of King Kong harassment.  Mom will always
forgive me.
	Bubba was on the steps, again waiting for me.  I gave him the dollar.  He
left as a conquering hero.  The turmoil had finally ended . . . or so I thought.  
	Also on the front steps was Susan with a bandage on her hand and
Susan’s father.  He spoke.
	“Young man, my daughter tells me that you refused to help her get home
safely the other day.  Did you know that the dog she was afraid of bit her because
you were not there to help her?”
	At that moment, I experienced a wrath from Miss America’s father that was
worse than anything either Mom or Bubba could have delivered.  I had never felt
anything so humbling and embarrassing.  I dropped my head.  I wanted to cry.  I
wanted to run home and hide.
	I hurt so bad inside that at noon I went home and waited for Mom.  When
she came home at 2 pm I was asleep on the couch.  The school had already
notified her that I was missing.  A friend on the school staff knew Mom was helping
with the funeral and had seen me walking up Columbia toward home.  She
suggested Mom check home first.
	I poured out my guts to Mom.  I told her everything about Bubba, the dollar,
Susan and her father.  She sat there staring at me in disbelief.  Then she spoke.
	“Well you were right.  You don’t need an enema!” she said with a grin on
her face.
	I think Mom and I laughed nonstop for at least a half an hour.

Postscript:
	Twenty years later I was enjoying a drink with another RHS grad, Jerry.
We were reminiscing about some of the crazy things that happened to us in school.
Jerry told me a story.
	“One day when I was in the sixth grade our class went on a field trip to the
high school.  As we were returning to Central School walking down Division, I
spotted a paper bag leaning against a power pole and I picked it up.  You won’t
believe what was in it!”
	“A dollar’s worth of candy!” I said confidently.  “Would you like to hear the
rest of the story?”